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With impious rites, most strange and horrible.

If he, my friend, in impious rites hath join'd, Demons, indeed, have o'er the soul of man A power to change its nature. Ay, Sulpicius; And thou and I may, ere a day shall pass, Be very Nazarenes. We are in ignorance; We shoot our arrow in the dark, and cry, "It is to wound a foe." Come, gentle Portia; Be not so sad; the man thou lovest is virtuous, And brave, and loves thee well; why then despair?

Alas! I know he is brave and virtuous, Therefore, I do despair.

In Nero's court, indeed, Such men are ever on the brink of danger, But would'st thou have him other than he is?

O, no! I would not; that were base and sordid; Yet shed I tears, even like a wayward child Who weeps for that which cannot be attain'd,— Virtue, and constancy, and safety join'd. I pray thee pardon me, for I am wretched, And that doth make me foolish and perverse. [Exeunt.